Happy Holidays, Andremeese!
Title: J is for Jealousy, That Green-Eyed Monster
Author: lillypuff
Characters From: Good Omens
Pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: PG-13
Written For: andremeese @ go_exchange
Warnings: m/m, mild language, vicious house plants
Summary: In which Aziraphale helps a mortal, Crowley is jealous, and a fern tries to start a revolution.
Disclaimer: The angel and the demon, and the world from wence they came, do not belong to me. *woe*
A/N: I tried to get in as many of your prompts as I could. We’ve got jealousy and the metaphorical ‘other woman’, live entertainment (hopefully bad live entertainment is ok lol), and not-so-clueless Aziraphale (in fact, I think Crowley is, or was, the clueless one). Many thanks to my Secret Beta, I touched this last so any remaining mistakes are my own. Hope you enjoy!
Crowley was severely tempted to cause some trouble (1). He could imagine the trumpet player currently on stage getting a case of itchy feet, or the bell of his instrument suddenly spewing forth an array of worms and cockroaches and other assorted creepy crawlies, or maybe just the guy’s hair catching on fire. Nothing huge, just some silly parlor tricks to save them all from further torture. He would have done it too, if not for one miserable little detail: the angel was beaming, and not just beaming in that annoying angelic fashion, as the Host were often wont to do, but more like a proud father. Or better yet, a proud mother. Crowley didn’t even have to glance in Aziraphale’s direction to know it, he could feel the joy radiating off of him like he was a leaky nuclear reactor. But that wasn’t very fair. He’d been at Chernobyl; the radiation there had been far less annoying.
Crowley poured himself another glass of wine, which, when he drank it in greedy gulps, did not seem to empty for quite some time. No one could ever say the job didn’t come with at least a few perks.
Thankfully, Aziraphale’s giddiness was not a result of the fellow currently on stage. No, not even the most oblivious and tone deaf of mothers could rally up a speck of maternal pride for the current performer. Crowley had his doubts as to whether or not even Aziraphale was capable of being that compassionate.
It was then that Crowley assigned himself with the task of discovering which side had come up with the idea of Amateur Night, and when he did, he’d make them suffer the tortures of The Damned -- unless of course they were The Damned -- in which case, he’d force them to eat some of Aziraphale’s cooking.
When the next ruptured note arced though Crowley’s head like a bolt of lightning, he didn’t even bother to pretend to pour more wine into his glass; it was just suddenly full again.
Ever since David had started his set it’d felt like he was drinking grape juice instead of the house red.
Bloody fucking hell.
Nothing had been right the last few weeks.
---------
(1) Not that this was out of the ordinary.
*****
David first showed up in front of Aziraphale’s bookstore, saxophone in hand, intending to spread some Holiday Cheer and maybe earn a little extra money in the process. He hadn’t been terrible, but he hadn’t been all that great, either. Mostly, what he’d been to Crowley was a distraction.
It may have been the Christmas music, or it may have simply been the saxophonist’s undeveloped talent, but Crowley found it very difficult to concentrate on the chess game he and the angel were playing. When Aziraphale stood up and walked to the front door of the shop, presumably to shoo the street performer away, Crowley was relieved.
Of course, he should have seen it coming. Crowley had a feeling that even if Aziraphale hadn’t been an angel, he still would have invited David inside, still would have doted and made a fuss about how unusually cold it was outside, and still would have offered David tea and biscuits and the only chair in the shop that seemed to be designed with comfort in mind; the one that the angel himself had always preferred. Aziraphale was just that bloody nice, and it made something in the vicinity of Crowley’s unnecessary heart ache. It also made him nauseous; a human reaction he’d never really been able to get around.
He put up with as much of it as he could, but eventually Crowley stood to leave, which was probably for the best because Aziraphale was three moves away from winning and even after the interruption, Crowley didn’t feel like switching around a few of the chess pieces so he had the upper hand. He told the angel that they could finish their chess game the following day because he had somewhere to be (2). That’s fine dear, have a nice day, Aziraphale had said in that soft voice that made Crowley’s teeth ache with its sweetness. The angel’s words often floated around in his head long after Aziraphale had stopped speaking, and this time they lingered until Crowley reached his flat, stormed inside, and poured himself a stiff drink.
When he headed back to the bookshop, bright and early the next afternoon, Crowley felt like he was back to his usual self. He caused three minor traffic accidents on his drive there, one of which really had been accidental (3), though both Crowley and the Bentley escaped unscathed. They were good at that.
The bell on the door jingled when Crowley sauntered into Aziraphale’s shop, distracting him from thoughts of how he could rearrange the chess pieces so that Aziraphale wouldn’t notice. Crowley looked up and stopped, dead in his tracks.
David was in the bookshop. He was still sitting in Aziraphale’s favorite chair. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he was wearing different clothes, Crowley would have thought he’d never left.
For a moment, the two just stared at each other, then David looked away, uncomfortable. Crowley smiled at that, then Aziraphale was bursting out from the back room, tea tray in hand, seemingly happy to see that Crowley had stopped by, and the smile dropped from Crowley’s lips.
He stood there for a moment, shuffling his weight from one foot to another, then looked at Aziraphale, really looked, and told an utterly unbelievable lie about how he’d forgotten to water his plants, and left.
Crowley tried not to hear Aziraphale call his name as the door to the shop closed behind him, but he couldn’t help it. His name from the angel’s lips always had a way of working its way inside his head. That time, not even the best Scotch Crowley was able to manifest could make it go away.
For the next couple of weeks, Crowley put his nose to the grindstone. He focused on his work and his plants, and avoided the bookshop when ever he got the slightest inkling that David might be there. He wrestled with a surprisingly ferocious Foxtail Fern, until he was able to force it into submission, and he angered holiday shoppers whenever he got the chance. It always amazed him how easily the harmony and flow of a parking lot could be disturbed by a few well placed shopping carts and how susceptible to demonic persuasion a till could be. The frustration wrought by a price scan gone wrong usually warmed him in the most wonderful of ways, but it seemed hollow without someone to share his exploits, even if that someone would have disapproved.
It was towards the end of the second week, while Crowley was tending to the subdued-for-now Foxtail, that his phone began to ring with cheery abandon, which of course, Crowley ignored, until the moment he realized that his ansaphone had decided to go on strike. He picked up the receiver, but kept an alert eye on the new plant.
“What can I do for you, angel?” The fern twitched, though from the breeze coming in through the window or out of aggression, Crowley couldn’t be sure.
“Oh, hello Crowley. Um. How did you know it was me?”
“You’re the only one that ever calls.” The fern twitched again, and on the other side of the room, the leaves of Crowley’s Parlor Palm rustled ominously.
“Oh. Right. Um. Where have you been lately?”
“Working.”
“Right. Listen, I was wondering…if maybe you’d accompany me to a club…this weekend.”
“Why?” Next to the Palm, the English Ivy joined the revolution.
“Well, David is playing and…” Crowley tried his best not to break the telephone receiver, his failure punctuated by the shards of broken plastic that suddenly collected at his feet. The house plants went still as he manifested himself a new one, “…so I thought I’d ask you.”
“No.” Crowley wasn’t sure who he was saying no to; Aziraphale, or the fern, the only plant in the flat that still dared to move.
“But…”
“Look, I just got this new fern and I thought I had him wrestled into submission, but now I think he’s giving the others ideas. I should really keep an eye on him and…”
“Please, Crowley…” Crowley clenched his jaw, tried to keep his eyelids from fluttering. “I miss you.”
Somewhere, in another part of the world, a bushel of African Violets bloomed out of season and Crowley relented. “Fine.”
“Wonderful.” Aziraphale sounded exceedingly chipper. Crowley hated it, and missed it. “Meet me at the shop on Saturday, around seven, then.”
“Sure,” Crowley replied, his attention returning to the fern. “But do me a favor…”
“Anything, dear.”
“If I don’t make it, be cautious of the fern. He’s a tricky little bastard.”
“Um. Ok.”
“See you Saturday.” Crowley hung up the phone and took a deep breath, purely for dramatic effect. He stalked towards the Foxtail, full of determination, and all the fury of Hell followed in his wake.
Of course, Crowley had never really been the lucky sort, which was why he inevitably survived the Foxtail(4) and was resigned to listen to two hours worth of shrill squawking that reminded him of the geese at St. James Park; the ones he always tried to drown when they stole bread from the ducks.
The only highlight of the night had been David. Even Crowley had to admit that he had been good. Too good, in fact. It smacked of angelic meddling and inspiration.
---------
(2) Which was anywhere but there.
(3) It happens sometimes, when one is not paying any sort of attention to the road.
(4) The final battle involved three pairs of garden sheers, a squirt bottle and the cracking of Crowley’s sunglasses, but in the end, the crisis had been averted.
*****
Crowley walked out of the club, Aziraphale at his side. When the angel took a hold of his elbow, Crowley didn’t shy away, but instead pulled him closer, his other hand covering Aziraphale’s as it rested of the crook of his elbow.
“Well, that was lovely, don’t you think?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley snorted. “It sounded like someone died in there.”
NOT LIKELY.
The words reverberated through Crowley’s head, scratching at the inside of his skull like nails on a chalkboard. He turned his head to glance behind him and for a brief moment he saw something dark, ominous, and ancient in the corner of his vision. He couldn’t be positive, but for a second he thinks that whatever it was, it wore a Santa hat.
“Crowley dear, is there something wrong?”
Crowley jerked his attention forward again. “No, just trying to recover.”
“Oh come now, it wasn’t that bad.”
“Yes, well it wasn’t that good, either. Except for David,” Crowley paused, looked at Aziraphale with mischievous eyes, even if the angel couldn’t see them through his sunglasses. “David was really good.”
Aziraphale suddenly looked uncomfortable. “What do you mean by that, you old serpent?”
“You were meddling. Divine inspiration and all that, er, jazz.”
“I did no such thing,” Aziraphale insisted, despite the blush that crept onto his cheeks. After a moment, the angel sighed. “All right, fine. You caught me. But I’m an angel, Crowley. I’m supposed to inspire.”
Crowley huffed. “Don’t think that just because I’m on the other side I don’t know what you’re supposed to be doing.” He didn’t really know, but Crowley was good with a bluff. “Inspire them to become better people, sure. Ditto on inspiring them to help their fellow man. But turning an aspiring jazz musician into Kenny G after three weeks…”
“Kenny G isn’t a jazz musician, per se, but thank you, I get your point.” When Aziraphale tried to loosen his grip, Crowley didn’t let him. “When did you become such a stickler on Divinity, anyway?”
Crowley stopped in his tracks and faced Aziraphale. “That is not even remotely funny.”
“I think it is. You, lecturing me, about the proper uses of Divine Inspiration. I imagine the Host is in stitches, at the moment.”
Crowley glared.
Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he replied, defiantly.
“Crowley…”
“Don’t you Crowley me.” Crowley glanced down at his shoes. They needed polishing. He mumbled something incoherent as he vanished away the scuff.
“What?”
Crowley still didn’t look up. “I said, you’re my angel, damn it.”
A moment of silence passed and then Crowley started to feel that feeling again. Aziraphale had resumed his beaming.
Eyebrows furrowed, Crowley looked up at the angel. “What?”
Aziraphale’s grin was painfully bright.
“What?” Crowley repeated.
“Nothing…”
“Bullocks. Now stop eyeing me like I’m a packet of biscuits that you found stowed away under your dusty old sofa and tell me what in the name of Helsinki has got you all giddy again.”
Aziraphale smiled a smile that nearly split his face. “You, my dear, are jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Of David.”
“I am not (5)!”
“You can’t lie to me, Crowley. You’re jealous of David, just like you were jealous of Raphael and Leonardo and Oscar and Tony. It’s written all over your face in bright neon lettering.”
Crowley crossed his arms defensively. He suddenly felt like pouting.
“Well, you were always so nice to those silly humans,” Crowley muttered.
“That’s because they were nice people, Crowley.” The angel sighed, “But you had nothing to worry about with them, and you have nothing to worry about with David, either.”
“I don’t?”
“No, you don’t. He’s a nice boy, but I was just trying to help. I’m your angel, remember? I always have been, dear. You were just too busy pining away to notice.”
“I was not pining.” Despite his better judgment, something akin to smile was starting to flicker at the corner of Crowley’s lips.
“Call it what you want, but you were doing it.”
“And you were just going to let me carry on, forever?”
“I figured you’d come around eventually. Patience is a virtue, and all that.”
“I thought Patience was a Principality?”
“Crowley…” Aziraphale rolled his eyes and then the look on his face suddenly went sour. Crowley tried not to panic. He thought everything had been going quite smoothly, all things considered.
“What?”
“Oh nothing. I just wish we had taken the Bentley after all.”
“Why?” The angel had put up quite a row before they had left, suggesting that they walk to the club because, for once, he wanted to arrive somewhere ‘without his feather’s ruffled’.
“Well,” Aziraphale put a hand on his stomach, “I’m famished, and I do believe there is still a packet of biscuits secreted away under, and I quote, my dusty old sofa.”
Crowley snorted. “There could be ten of them, if you wanted, you know.”
“I know, but sometimes I enjoy doing things their way. Stowing something away for a rainy day can be quite rewarding sometimes.”
Crowley laughed. He couldn’t help it, not with the way the angel was standing there with a hand on his stomach like someone who hadn’t eaten all day, trying to act human, and probably succeeding, as far as onlookers were concerned. But Crowley knew what the slightly dusty, slightly pudgy bookseller dressed in tartan really was, and it made all the difference.
The smile was still locked in place when Crowley’s laughter subsided, still there when he slid a hand behind Aziraphale’s head and pulled the angel close to him. For ages he had wondered what this very moment would be like, how it would feel to press his lips against Aziraphale’s, to tangle his fingers in his hair, to feel Aziraphale’s hands suddenly grab a hold of his hips as if he were a life preserver, when in fact, he was floundering just as much as the angel was. The sensations were overwhelming and Crowley quickly learned that centuries worth of demonic imagination were nowhere near enough to prepare him for the real thing. He was suddenly very relieved that he hadn’t any need to breath.
If Crowley hadn’t been prone to acts of a demonic nature, kissing Aziraphale may have reminded him of the things that made life bearable for mortal: a mother’s home cooked meals, reading a good book, freshly baked cookies and valued possessions, like fine art and flashy cars. But a demon Crowley was, and to kiss Aziraphale was a completely different experience; pressing his lips against the angel’s reminded Crowley of home.
Not home as in his flat, where a certain Foxtail Fern was trying to salvage what remained of it’s dignity, and certainly not the fire and brimstone of Hell, but his first home, the one from which he had been cast out. It hurt a little, but it warmed him too, and it made him want more.
Crowley tangled his fingers further into Aziraphale’s silky strands of hair and with his free hand he cupped the side of the angel’s face, running his thumb over the soft skin. When Aziraphale parted his lips, Crowley slowly slipped his tongue inside the angel’s mouth and he would have been content with exploring it if not for the sudden thump to his back.
Crowley jerked away from the angel, turning his head in time to see a woman, who was obviously in a rush, hurrying further down the crowded pavement. From her arms dangled an array of shopping bags, one of which was surely responsible for the sudden interruption.
Crowley rolled his eyes and sighed. “They’re always in such a rush.”
A soft hmmm was Aziraphale’s only response. Crowley smiled as the angel tried to form words with quivering lips.
“I think maybe we should head back to the shop, we have to walk, remember?” Crowley shakes his head and gestures behind him. Aziraphale glances over Crowley's shoulder, surely spotting the Bentley parked only a few cars away. After a moment’s realization, the angel smiles. “Oh. Well, I guess…”
Crowley, too focused on making up for lost time, didn’t let Aziraphale finish his thought.
---------
(5) He was.
Happy Holidays, andremeese, from your Secret Writer!
Author: lillypuff
Characters From: Good Omens
Pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: PG-13
Written For: andremeese @ go_exchange
Warnings: m/m, mild language, vicious house plants
Summary: In which Aziraphale helps a mortal, Crowley is jealous, and a fern tries to start a revolution.
Disclaimer: The angel and the demon, and the world from wence they came, do not belong to me. *woe*
A/N: I tried to get in as many of your prompts as I could. We’ve got jealousy and the metaphorical ‘other woman’, live entertainment (hopefully bad live entertainment is ok lol), and not-so-clueless Aziraphale (in fact, I think Crowley is, or was, the clueless one). Many thanks to my Secret Beta, I touched this last so any remaining mistakes are my own. Hope you enjoy!
Crowley was severely tempted to cause some trouble (1). He could imagine the trumpet player currently on stage getting a case of itchy feet, or the bell of his instrument suddenly spewing forth an array of worms and cockroaches and other assorted creepy crawlies, or maybe just the guy’s hair catching on fire. Nothing huge, just some silly parlor tricks to save them all from further torture. He would have done it too, if not for one miserable little detail: the angel was beaming, and not just beaming in that annoying angelic fashion, as the Host were often wont to do, but more like a proud father. Or better yet, a proud mother. Crowley didn’t even have to glance in Aziraphale’s direction to know it, he could feel the joy radiating off of him like he was a leaky nuclear reactor. But that wasn’t very fair. He’d been at Chernobyl; the radiation there had been far less annoying.
Crowley poured himself another glass of wine, which, when he drank it in greedy gulps, did not seem to empty for quite some time. No one could ever say the job didn’t come with at least a few perks.
Thankfully, Aziraphale’s giddiness was not a result of the fellow currently on stage. No, not even the most oblivious and tone deaf of mothers could rally up a speck of maternal pride for the current performer. Crowley had his doubts as to whether or not even Aziraphale was capable of being that compassionate.
It was then that Crowley assigned himself with the task of discovering which side had come up with the idea of Amateur Night, and when he did, he’d make them suffer the tortures of The Damned -- unless of course they were The Damned -- in which case, he’d force them to eat some of Aziraphale’s cooking.
When the next ruptured note arced though Crowley’s head like a bolt of lightning, he didn’t even bother to pretend to pour more wine into his glass; it was just suddenly full again.
Ever since David had started his set it’d felt like he was drinking grape juice instead of the house red.
Bloody fucking hell.
Nothing had been right the last few weeks.
---------
(1) Not that this was out of the ordinary.
*****
David first showed up in front of Aziraphale’s bookstore, saxophone in hand, intending to spread some Holiday Cheer and maybe earn a little extra money in the process. He hadn’t been terrible, but he hadn’t been all that great, either. Mostly, what he’d been to Crowley was a distraction.
It may have been the Christmas music, or it may have simply been the saxophonist’s undeveloped talent, but Crowley found it very difficult to concentrate on the chess game he and the angel were playing. When Aziraphale stood up and walked to the front door of the shop, presumably to shoo the street performer away, Crowley was relieved.
Of course, he should have seen it coming. Crowley had a feeling that even if Aziraphale hadn’t been an angel, he still would have invited David inside, still would have doted and made a fuss about how unusually cold it was outside, and still would have offered David tea and biscuits and the only chair in the shop that seemed to be designed with comfort in mind; the one that the angel himself had always preferred. Aziraphale was just that bloody nice, and it made something in the vicinity of Crowley’s unnecessary heart ache. It also made him nauseous; a human reaction he’d never really been able to get around.
He put up with as much of it as he could, but eventually Crowley stood to leave, which was probably for the best because Aziraphale was three moves away from winning and even after the interruption, Crowley didn’t feel like switching around a few of the chess pieces so he had the upper hand. He told the angel that they could finish their chess game the following day because he had somewhere to be (2). That’s fine dear, have a nice day, Aziraphale had said in that soft voice that made Crowley’s teeth ache with its sweetness. The angel’s words often floated around in his head long after Aziraphale had stopped speaking, and this time they lingered until Crowley reached his flat, stormed inside, and poured himself a stiff drink.
When he headed back to the bookshop, bright and early the next afternoon, Crowley felt like he was back to his usual self. He caused three minor traffic accidents on his drive there, one of which really had been accidental (3), though both Crowley and the Bentley escaped unscathed. They were good at that.
The bell on the door jingled when Crowley sauntered into Aziraphale’s shop, distracting him from thoughts of how he could rearrange the chess pieces so that Aziraphale wouldn’t notice. Crowley looked up and stopped, dead in his tracks.
David was in the bookshop. He was still sitting in Aziraphale’s favorite chair. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he was wearing different clothes, Crowley would have thought he’d never left.
For a moment, the two just stared at each other, then David looked away, uncomfortable. Crowley smiled at that, then Aziraphale was bursting out from the back room, tea tray in hand, seemingly happy to see that Crowley had stopped by, and the smile dropped from Crowley’s lips.
He stood there for a moment, shuffling his weight from one foot to another, then looked at Aziraphale, really looked, and told an utterly unbelievable lie about how he’d forgotten to water his plants, and left.
Crowley tried not to hear Aziraphale call his name as the door to the shop closed behind him, but he couldn’t help it. His name from the angel’s lips always had a way of working its way inside his head. That time, not even the best Scotch Crowley was able to manifest could make it go away.
For the next couple of weeks, Crowley put his nose to the grindstone. He focused on his work and his plants, and avoided the bookshop when ever he got the slightest inkling that David might be there. He wrestled with a surprisingly ferocious Foxtail Fern, until he was able to force it into submission, and he angered holiday shoppers whenever he got the chance. It always amazed him how easily the harmony and flow of a parking lot could be disturbed by a few well placed shopping carts and how susceptible to demonic persuasion a till could be. The frustration wrought by a price scan gone wrong usually warmed him in the most wonderful of ways, but it seemed hollow without someone to share his exploits, even if that someone would have disapproved.
It was towards the end of the second week, while Crowley was tending to the subdued-for-now Foxtail, that his phone began to ring with cheery abandon, which of course, Crowley ignored, until the moment he realized that his ansaphone had decided to go on strike. He picked up the receiver, but kept an alert eye on the new plant.
“What can I do for you, angel?” The fern twitched, though from the breeze coming in through the window or out of aggression, Crowley couldn’t be sure.
“Oh, hello Crowley. Um. How did you know it was me?”
“You’re the only one that ever calls.” The fern twitched again, and on the other side of the room, the leaves of Crowley’s Parlor Palm rustled ominously.
“Oh. Right. Um. Where have you been lately?”
“Working.”
“Right. Listen, I was wondering…if maybe you’d accompany me to a club…this weekend.”
“Why?” Next to the Palm, the English Ivy joined the revolution.
“Well, David is playing and…” Crowley tried his best not to break the telephone receiver, his failure punctuated by the shards of broken plastic that suddenly collected at his feet. The house plants went still as he manifested himself a new one, “…so I thought I’d ask you.”
“No.” Crowley wasn’t sure who he was saying no to; Aziraphale, or the fern, the only plant in the flat that still dared to move.
“But…”
“Look, I just got this new fern and I thought I had him wrestled into submission, but now I think he’s giving the others ideas. I should really keep an eye on him and…”
“Please, Crowley…” Crowley clenched his jaw, tried to keep his eyelids from fluttering. “I miss you.”
Somewhere, in another part of the world, a bushel of African Violets bloomed out of season and Crowley relented. “Fine.”
“Wonderful.” Aziraphale sounded exceedingly chipper. Crowley hated it, and missed it. “Meet me at the shop on Saturday, around seven, then.”
“Sure,” Crowley replied, his attention returning to the fern. “But do me a favor…”
“Anything, dear.”
“If I don’t make it, be cautious of the fern. He’s a tricky little bastard.”
“Um. Ok.”
“See you Saturday.” Crowley hung up the phone and took a deep breath, purely for dramatic effect. He stalked towards the Foxtail, full of determination, and all the fury of Hell followed in his wake.
Of course, Crowley had never really been the lucky sort, which was why he inevitably survived the Foxtail(4) and was resigned to listen to two hours worth of shrill squawking that reminded him of the geese at St. James Park; the ones he always tried to drown when they stole bread from the ducks.
The only highlight of the night had been David. Even Crowley had to admit that he had been good. Too good, in fact. It smacked of angelic meddling and inspiration.
---------
(2) Which was anywhere but there.
(3) It happens sometimes, when one is not paying any sort of attention to the road.
(4) The final battle involved three pairs of garden sheers, a squirt bottle and the cracking of Crowley’s sunglasses, but in the end, the crisis had been averted.
*****
Crowley walked out of the club, Aziraphale at his side. When the angel took a hold of his elbow, Crowley didn’t shy away, but instead pulled him closer, his other hand covering Aziraphale’s as it rested of the crook of his elbow.
“Well, that was lovely, don’t you think?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley snorted. “It sounded like someone died in there.”
NOT LIKELY.
The words reverberated through Crowley’s head, scratching at the inside of his skull like nails on a chalkboard. He turned his head to glance behind him and for a brief moment he saw something dark, ominous, and ancient in the corner of his vision. He couldn’t be positive, but for a second he thinks that whatever it was, it wore a Santa hat.
“Crowley dear, is there something wrong?”
Crowley jerked his attention forward again. “No, just trying to recover.”
“Oh come now, it wasn’t that bad.”
“Yes, well it wasn’t that good, either. Except for David,” Crowley paused, looked at Aziraphale with mischievous eyes, even if the angel couldn’t see them through his sunglasses. “David was really good.”
Aziraphale suddenly looked uncomfortable. “What do you mean by that, you old serpent?”
“You were meddling. Divine inspiration and all that, er, jazz.”
“I did no such thing,” Aziraphale insisted, despite the blush that crept onto his cheeks. After a moment, the angel sighed. “All right, fine. You caught me. But I’m an angel, Crowley. I’m supposed to inspire.”
Crowley huffed. “Don’t think that just because I’m on the other side I don’t know what you’re supposed to be doing.” He didn’t really know, but Crowley was good with a bluff. “Inspire them to become better people, sure. Ditto on inspiring them to help their fellow man. But turning an aspiring jazz musician into Kenny G after three weeks…”
“Kenny G isn’t a jazz musician, per se, but thank you, I get your point.” When Aziraphale tried to loosen his grip, Crowley didn’t let him. “When did you become such a stickler on Divinity, anyway?”
Crowley stopped in his tracks and faced Aziraphale. “That is not even remotely funny.”
“I think it is. You, lecturing me, about the proper uses of Divine Inspiration. I imagine the Host is in stitches, at the moment.”
Crowley glared.
Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he replied, defiantly.
“Crowley…”
“Don’t you Crowley me.” Crowley glanced down at his shoes. They needed polishing. He mumbled something incoherent as he vanished away the scuff.
“What?”
Crowley still didn’t look up. “I said, you’re my angel, damn it.”
A moment of silence passed and then Crowley started to feel that feeling again. Aziraphale had resumed his beaming.
Eyebrows furrowed, Crowley looked up at the angel. “What?”
Aziraphale’s grin was painfully bright.
“What?” Crowley repeated.
“Nothing…”
“Bullocks. Now stop eyeing me like I’m a packet of biscuits that you found stowed away under your dusty old sofa and tell me what in the name of Helsinki has got you all giddy again.”
Aziraphale smiled a smile that nearly split his face. “You, my dear, are jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Of David.”
“I am not (5)!”
“You can’t lie to me, Crowley. You’re jealous of David, just like you were jealous of Raphael and Leonardo and Oscar and Tony. It’s written all over your face in bright neon lettering.”
Crowley crossed his arms defensively. He suddenly felt like pouting.
“Well, you were always so nice to those silly humans,” Crowley muttered.
“That’s because they were nice people, Crowley.” The angel sighed, “But you had nothing to worry about with them, and you have nothing to worry about with David, either.”
“I don’t?”
“No, you don’t. He’s a nice boy, but I was just trying to help. I’m your angel, remember? I always have been, dear. You were just too busy pining away to notice.”
“I was not pining.” Despite his better judgment, something akin to smile was starting to flicker at the corner of Crowley’s lips.
“Call it what you want, but you were doing it.”
“And you were just going to let me carry on, forever?”
“I figured you’d come around eventually. Patience is a virtue, and all that.”
“I thought Patience was a Principality?”
“Crowley…” Aziraphale rolled his eyes and then the look on his face suddenly went sour. Crowley tried not to panic. He thought everything had been going quite smoothly, all things considered.
“What?”
“Oh nothing. I just wish we had taken the Bentley after all.”
“Why?” The angel had put up quite a row before they had left, suggesting that they walk to the club because, for once, he wanted to arrive somewhere ‘without his feather’s ruffled’.
“Well,” Aziraphale put a hand on his stomach, “I’m famished, and I do believe there is still a packet of biscuits secreted away under, and I quote, my dusty old sofa.”
Crowley snorted. “There could be ten of them, if you wanted, you know.”
“I know, but sometimes I enjoy doing things their way. Stowing something away for a rainy day can be quite rewarding sometimes.”
Crowley laughed. He couldn’t help it, not with the way the angel was standing there with a hand on his stomach like someone who hadn’t eaten all day, trying to act human, and probably succeeding, as far as onlookers were concerned. But Crowley knew what the slightly dusty, slightly pudgy bookseller dressed in tartan really was, and it made all the difference.
The smile was still locked in place when Crowley’s laughter subsided, still there when he slid a hand behind Aziraphale’s head and pulled the angel close to him. For ages he had wondered what this very moment would be like, how it would feel to press his lips against Aziraphale’s, to tangle his fingers in his hair, to feel Aziraphale’s hands suddenly grab a hold of his hips as if he were a life preserver, when in fact, he was floundering just as much as the angel was. The sensations were overwhelming and Crowley quickly learned that centuries worth of demonic imagination were nowhere near enough to prepare him for the real thing. He was suddenly very relieved that he hadn’t any need to breath.
If Crowley hadn’t been prone to acts of a demonic nature, kissing Aziraphale may have reminded him of the things that made life bearable for mortal: a mother’s home cooked meals, reading a good book, freshly baked cookies and valued possessions, like fine art and flashy cars. But a demon Crowley was, and to kiss Aziraphale was a completely different experience; pressing his lips against the angel’s reminded Crowley of home.
Not home as in his flat, where a certain Foxtail Fern was trying to salvage what remained of it’s dignity, and certainly not the fire and brimstone of Hell, but his first home, the one from which he had been cast out. It hurt a little, but it warmed him too, and it made him want more.
Crowley tangled his fingers further into Aziraphale’s silky strands of hair and with his free hand he cupped the side of the angel’s face, running his thumb over the soft skin. When Aziraphale parted his lips, Crowley slowly slipped his tongue inside the angel’s mouth and he would have been content with exploring it if not for the sudden thump to his back.
Crowley jerked away from the angel, turning his head in time to see a woman, who was obviously in a rush, hurrying further down the crowded pavement. From her arms dangled an array of shopping bags, one of which was surely responsible for the sudden interruption.
Crowley rolled his eyes and sighed. “They’re always in such a rush.”
A soft hmmm was Aziraphale’s only response. Crowley smiled as the angel tried to form words with quivering lips.
“I think maybe we should head back to the shop, we have to walk, remember?” Crowley shakes his head and gestures behind him. Aziraphale glances over Crowley's shoulder, surely spotting the Bentley parked only a few cars away. After a moment’s realization, the angel smiles. “Oh. Well, I guess…”
Crowley, too focused on making up for lost time, didn’t let Aziraphale finish his thought.
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(5) He was.
Happy Holidays, andremeese, from your Secret Writer!